


Edges

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 22:49:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4979638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a moment, he can believe he is precious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Edges

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick little drabble that I wrote on tumblr - but I ended up liking it, so posting it here, too.

Breath ghosts against his thighs, teeth brushing the edge of one faded mark – decades since its birth, the grazing of a lopsided sword. His own fault, at the time, hardly a heroic story – he’s told countless widows over the years that it involved a daring rescue, a sweeping freedom. Porthos kisses the twisting edge of it, jagged and ugly, his beard drags across his thigh – close enough to burn, close enough to feel hours later. Aramis shivers. Of course he does. 

Teeth and tongue and lips and breath trace the curve of his hip, moving upward. He’s settled between Aramis’ legs, teasing at each inch of skin except for what he wants him to tease at. But he can be patient – more patient than Porthos can be, whose pupils blew wide just with the act of settling over his body, thighs bracketing his. Aramis drags his leg up now, settles it at Porthos’ hip – a reminder, skin upon skin. 

Porthos smiles at him – all dimples, all teeth. His eyes are softer up close. Aramis lifts his hand, touches his cheek, drags his thumb down the scar across his eyelid and Porthos closes his eyes obediently to the touch, leans into that touch, breathes out to that touch. 

And he bows his head, kisses at Aramis’ stomach – remembers, of course, that his purpose is to Aramis. But Aramis would much rather lay worship at Porthos’ feet, nuzzle and kiss and drag himself across him, made more beautiful by each scar left asunder to skin – a mark of his living, a mark of his survival. 

Lips at his neck now, touching the whitened sliver of a faded scar jagging along his collarbone. He hums out, a soft prayer – hands fan out at his stomach and Aramis breathes into it, tries to envision what Porthos must see: not something broken and unneeded, but someone powerful and perplexing, someone worth loving, worth cherishing. The hands on him are hands that believe him precious. For a moment, he can believe he is.


End file.
